


The Joy of Antiques

by pipsqueak119



Category: Forever (TV)
Genre: F/M, Humor, Implied Sexual Content, Sexual Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-04
Updated: 2015-02-04
Packaged: 2018-03-10 13:12:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3291545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pipsqueak119/pseuds/pipsqueak119
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the early years of Abe's Antiques, Abe decides he needs to take on an extra partner. What could possibly go wrong?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Joy of Antiques

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is completely non-canon and nonsensical, but a whole lot of fun. Hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. :D 
> 
> Special thanks to Idelthoughts, who held my hand through the whole writing process. Her inspiration and insight has been priceless.

**Prologue — January 2014**

The Park Avenue Armory was a hive of activity. Opening night for the 60th Winter Antiques Show was just a few hours away. The air was heavy with lemon oil and furniture polish, while the buzz of vendors directing their helpers to put the finishing touches on their displays hummed constantly. Somewhere, the sound of broken glass, followed by a long string of beautifully accented invectives, rang out.

“I’m sorry, Abe,” Henry said, picking up bits of broken glassware. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me but I seem to be all thumbs today.”

Abe grabbed a broom leaning against a Chippendale breakfront and knelt to help sweep up the shards. “It’s OK, it was just one box. But maybe I should unpack the rest while you finish putting the silver platters on that buffet over there.” As Henry moved to his new task, Abe grinned and added, “I just hope you’re easier on those bodies at the morgue than you are on the Heisey crystal.”

Henry shot Abe a pointed look and began pulling ornate silver platters out of a packing carton and placing them on an elegant Regency sideboard accented with shining drawer pulls and gold tracing.

“C’mon, it was a joke.” Abe tossed a wad of bubble wrap to the ground and set a champagne coupe on a dark oak bar heavily carved with grape clusters and vines, then reached for another. “You’ve been a great help today. There’s no way I could have set up this whole stall without you.”

“Well, it’s the least I can do,” Henry replied, rearranging platters as if he were playing a shell game. “I know I haven’t always been there for you with this store—”

“Henry, please.”

The enticing scent of jasmine and orange blossom, accompanied by the click clack of approaching heels on the armory’s marble floor, brought both men to silence.

“That’s not…,” Henry asked.

“Oh, God,” Abe gulped.

“Abraham,” exclaimed a velvet voice edged in steel. “I was wondering if you would be here this year. Love what you’ve done with your stall.”

“Oh, yeah, uh, hi…,” Abe was interrupted by the clatter of dropped silver and all eyes turned to Henry’s back at the sideboard.

“Who’s your friend?” the woman asked.

“He’s, ah, you know it’s a funny story actually …,” Abe grabbed for words as if he were rock climbing Mount Everest.

Slowly, Henry turned around, smiling vacantly.

The woman gawped. “Oh my God, Henry? Henry Morgan?”

Abe broke in, “Ah yes, as a matter fact he is Henry Morgan. Junior. He’s the son of my old partner that you met back in the day.” Abe swept his hand from the woman to Henry and then back again. “Henry, this is The Frenchman. She specializes in antique weaponry.”

“Very pleased to make your acquaintance,” Henry was all politeness, smiling and putting a hand out. “The Frenchman? I hope you don’t mind my saying so, but that’s a bit of an odd name for such a lovely woman of obvious Japanese ancestry.”

The Frenchman’s scarlet lips curved into a smile as she gave a firm shake to the offered hand. “I can see you’ve inherited your father’s charm, as well as his good looks. Seriously, you look like someone put him through the copy machine. It’s uncanny.” She stared intently at Henry’s face, then began a slow descent of his body.

Before she could get too close of a look, Abe took the Frenchman’s elbow and steered her towards the stall’s entrance. “You know, I am so glad you stopped by. I was going to come looking for you myself when I was done with the stall and, ah,” his face lit up as he hit upon the perfect carrot to dangle, “make you promise to save me a dance at the opening night party later on.”

“Oh, Abe,” The Frenchman put a hand on Abe’s chest and leaned in close to whisper in his ear. “You know you can have as many dances as you want. In fact, why don’t we skip the party, and I can do a private dance for you at my place.”

“Oh, ah, sounds nice. But maybe we should start with the opening night party first. Wouldn’t want the other vendors to start talking, would we?” Abe’s smile turned wan as he stepped back and nudged her out of the stall. “Let me finish here and then we can talk, alright?”

“Later, Abe. Don’t make me come looking for you,” The Frenchman cooed as she made her way back to her stall through the vendors crowding the aisle.

Abe turned and shared a relieved sigh with Henry. “That was close."

"Yes, a little too close."

"Henry," Abe stuck his hands in his pockets and shifted from one foot to the other. "I know I said I wanted you to be my wingman, but now I'm thinking maybe it would be better if you didn't come to the party.”

Henry nodded. “Agreed. I think I’ve seen enough of The Frenchman for one lifetime.”

Abe just sighed.

 

* * *

**August 1978**

Abe ran a hand through his hair, fingers catching in its thick waves, and sighed over the ledgers covering his desk. Too much red. He shook his head. Not enough green. He looked around the shop with a frown, toying with a gilt ceramic shepherdess sitting lonely amidst the meadow of ledgers. The store was filled to bursting with shining silver and gleaming brass placed chockablock on heavy oak furniture. Never enough green.

He stood, hitched up his pants and paced over to the sideboard to pour himself a glass of wine. It was almost 5:30, Henry would be home soon. They needed to talk and Abe needed a drink in him before they did.

He poured himself four fingers of 1975 Caymus Special Selection, sipped and licked a few spare drops of red wine from his mustache. California was definitely going to give France a run for its money one of these days. He poured another glass. It wouldn’t hurt for Henry to have some wine in him as well.

Maybe a little music to set the right mood? He shuffled through the albums next to the record player, pulled Miles Davis’s Water Babies out of its sleeve, then hesitated. Jazz was definitely not Henry’s thing. He carefully slid the disc back into its sleeve, reached to the bottom of the stack of LPs and grabbed Beethoven: The Five Piano Concertos. Now this was right up Henry’s alley.

As the opening notes of Concerto I began, the bells above the door jingled. Abe turned to see Henry entering the shop and frowned. His father looked exhausted. Just because Henry was destined to be a perpetual 35-year old didn’t mean his body didn’t ache at the end of a hard day or that he didn't feel the heat of the subway ride home in the dog days of August.

Heavy leather work gloves were tucked into the wide leather belt around Henry’s jeans, and a light coating of dirt filmed his clothes and the muscles of his forearms, smudged his temples and his cheeks. Beads of sweat clung to his dark chestnut curls and sideburns before running slowly down his neck onto the collar of his blue chambray work shirt.

“Glad to see your taste in music has finally improved,” Henry said cheerfully as he sat down to remove his work boots."If not your taste in clothes. Honestly, Abe, orange striped bell bottoms and white boots? You've grown into a handsome young man. You should dress accordingly."

Abe gave a muffled snort. "Thanks. Good day at the office?" He looked pointedly at Henry, who was mopping at the back of his neck with a soiled bandana.

"I know you think digging graves is beneath a trained physician, but personally, I find the work very rewarding,” Henry stopped mopping, picked up his boots and headed towards the double doors that led to the apartment stairs at the back of the shop. “In my own way, I'm helping families deal with their grief and ease their pain. It's an honest day's labor that pays an honest day's wage."

"Oh, is that a shot at my business?" Abe’s hackles were up instantly, but he held his position by the sideboard.

Henry halted in his tracks, holding the door open. "Of course not,” he knit his brows together. “I would never—"

"Because if it is, let me tell you, I don't need you or your money.” Abe emphasized his declaration with a shake of his finger. “I can make this shop work on my own." He gulped his wine.

Henry’s face cleared and he tilted his head towards his son. "How much do you need?"

"Oh, for the love of.... Could we just once have a simple conversation like a couple of adults?" Abe heard the whine in his voice and grimaced. This was not going well. He brought Henry a glass of wine as a peace offering and put a hand companionably on the other man's shoulder. "Look, I know you don't like dipping into your savings—"

"Please, Abe, all you ever have to do is ask.” Henry spoke calmly, softly. He accepted the wine but his eyes never left his son's face.

Abe closed his eyes and his father pulled away. At Henry’s movement, Abe’s eyes flew open to see Henry’s abandoned glass on a bookcase.  "No, I mean, thanks,” he stammered, "But that's not what I want.” He raised his voice to reach Henry, who was halfway up the stairs. “I mean that money's got to last you for, well, forever. And I’m not a kid anymore. You can't bail me out every time I'm in trouble.” He looked back at the shop door, then leaned in further to call up the stairs. “If I'm going to be a success here, I have to make it on my own. Well, kind of on my own. I mean you are a partner. But now there's this girl...."

"Oh, Abraham, not another one." Henry’s voice floated down to Abe from the landing. "Did you learn nothing from that Maureen fiasco?"

Abe shot another look at the door and shuffled his feet. He gave a groan and bounded up the steps two at a time to try and catch his father but Henry had moved farther into the apartment. "No, no, it's not like that. Not at all. Well, maybe a little, but that's beside the point."

"And what precisely is the point?" A familiar squeak preceded the sound of running water.

Abe pushed the half-open bathroom door and found Henry stripping off his dirty clothes and stuffing them into the hamper. "Her father... he was this big deal in antique weaponry. Had a small shop... but... you know... very well respected and a client roster to die for. He... ah... he passed away recently, and she inherited the business. I, ah… well, you know… since she's a girl... and, uhm, probably new to this business... I thought I'd, ah... offer her a chance to partner up. "

Henry stuck his hand in the shower stream to test the water’s heat and frowned at his son.

Abe ignored Henry's disapproval and continued on gamely. “We could devote half this shop to antique weaponry and the other half to your…,” he straightened the towels hanging on the bar, “I mean, our antiques. We split costs and profits, and I could take care of the money side of things so she wouldn't have to worry about it."

"And have you mentioned your idea to this 'girl'?" Henry asked from behind the shower curtain.

Abe pursed his lips and looked at the stamped tin ceiling. "I might have mentioned it to her in passing.”

"Ah ha. And what did she say?" The fresh scent of Ivory soap accented Henry’s words as Abe heard him lathering up.

"She said she'd think about it." Abe sat on the closed toilet and crossed his legs. He noticed a smudge on the toe of his left white ankle boot and leaned down to rub at it with his shirt cuff, the polyester buffing out the dirt nicely.

The water shut off and Henry’s arm snaked from behind the shower curtain to grab at a towel. "And that's it?"

"And that she might sort of stop by at 7:30 tonight to take a look at the shop." Abe held an expectant breath, waiting for the avalanche of paternal wisdom to begin.

Instead, the shower curtain slid open with a rattle of hooks to reveal Henry placidly wrapping a towel around his waist. "I see. And you want me to help by vacating the premises until she's gone, is that it?"

Henry, wet and dripping, wasn't an unfamiliar sight to his son. At least this time he was just climbing out of their claw-foot tub, instead of the East River. Abe shifted his legs so they stuck out the doorway to give Henry room. "No, actually, I was hoping you'd stick around. I think she might be more confident in the deal if she knows she's partnering up with two sharp businessmen, not just one."

"Are you sure about this?” Henry grabbed another towel and vigorously rubbed his hair. “I know you want help with the store, but letting this woman into our business means letting her into our lives.” Henry tossed the towel over the shower rod and faced his son. “After all, we've agreed that I shouldn't ever meet your girlfriends–or wives for that matter–because they might notice my condition. This could be even more dangerous."

"Don't be such a worry wart, Henry." Abe shrugged his shoulders and grinned. "It's not like I'm going to marry her."

Henry rolled his eyes. "Now where have I heard that before?"

"She's just a girl," Abe shot back, shaking his long limbs and heading to the stairs, already mentally down in his shop. “We can handle her. Besides, she's cute."

"Abraham!” Curls of steam followed Henry’s bark out of the bathroom. "If nothing else, I had hoped your mother and I taught you to value women's intelligence and insight. If this woman is to be your business partner, you must treat her with the appropriate respect."

"I just meant a little window dressing always helps to drum up business. It wouldn't hurt to have another pretty face working here besides mine." Abe gave a self-satisfied chuckle as he hopped down the stairs. Oh yeah, this was going to work out just fine.

 

* * *

Abe was setting out two clean wine glasses on a silver tray when Henry, freshly dressed in a pair of camel slacks topped by a chocolate button down and cream silk scarf, joined him in the shop. He handed the other man a glass with a twinge of jealousy running through his bones.

Henry had an easy elegance honed over centuries that had taught him just how to show off his eternally youthful physique to its best advantage. Not to mention that damn British charm. Abe would never be able to mimic his father’s timeless style, so instead he reveled in the latest fashion trends with a rakish exuberance.

Henry held up his wine for inspection, swirled, and sniffed at the bouquet before sipping. "So are you going to tell me anything else about our potential business partner? Perhaps her name?"

"Oh, yeah, she goes by The Frenchman."

"The Frenchman?” Henry took another sip of wine and swallowed slowly. “Seems an odd name for a woman."

"Yeah, it has something to do with her father. But I wouldn't ask."

“Look, Abe, you don’t have to do this. My offer still stands. I know I wasn’t here for you when you opened the shop, but after your mother…,” Henry put down the wine glass and stared at the passers-by outside the shop window. “Well, I just needed to get away for a bit.”

Abe waved away his father’s half-spoken apology. “It’s OK, really. I’m a grown man, complete with ex-wife and alimony payments.”

“Yes, but I am still your father. I should have been here for you.” Henry paced a few steps forward, then turned and paced back, clenching and unclenching his fists the whole time. “Perhaps if I had been, you wouldn’t have taken up with that hussy, much less married her!”

“Maureen? Oh, we are not going to….” Abe pulled himself up to his full height and rounded on Henry.

Just then the bells jangled, and a young Asian woman in a heart-patterned t-shirt stepped into the shop. “Saved by the bell,” Abe muttered under his breath.

“Abraham!” She clomped over to the two men, her three-inch platforms making it sound as if a herd of horses had entered the store.

“Hey there, gorgeous!” Abe bent to kiss the cheek she offered. "Let me introduce you to my current partner, Henry.  Henry, this is The Frenchman."

"The Frenchman?" Henry took her hand and promptly kissed it. "An unusual name for a woman of unusual beauty."

"Ooh, Abe didn't tell me you were British. That's good for business. Clients love talking antiques to someone with an accent. Makes them feel smart or something."

"Thank you." Henry gave an anemic smile. "I also provide many of the antiques from my, ah... father's collection in London."

Abe draped an arm casually around her shoulders, offering her a wine glass with his other hand. “Speaking of which, why don’t we take a look around? We’ve got some high quality merchandise here and I’ll just explain—”

A playful slap caught Abe in the gut. “Yeah, right,” she laughed. “Like I need somebody to explain antiques to me. You are so cute!” She stepped away to explore, leaving Abe holding the proffered glass.

Ponytail bobbing, The Frenchman sauntered around the shop, skimming her hands along the furniture, occasionally picking up a smaller piece for closer inspection. Both Henry’s and Abe’s heads tilted as she bent to inspect an old steamer trunk, her red satin track shorts rising to breathtaking heights.

"Yeah, looks like you got some decent inventory in here." She stood and ran her eyes up and down both men. "Not to mention elsewhere."

Henry raised his eyebrows at Abe, who set the glass down and jumped forward. "I was thinking we could dedicate this half of the place to your inventory." The Frenchman's head followed Abe's waving hands. "It's right by the door and gives you windows on two sides to display the weapons."

"Hmmm, it does get good sunlight." The Frenchman walked the parameter of the space. "But what about storage? Do I get half the basement?" Her eyes searched the floor. "I bet it’s huge. Where's the trap door? All these old places have them ... aha!" Acquiring her target, she made a beeline for it and bent to lift its ring.

Henry dashed over and stood on the door. "I am sorry. That's not storage. I use that as a private, ah, retreat."

"Retreat, hmm. I don't know. Storage space is pretty hard to come by."

"Nevertheless—"

"I'm sure we could negotiate something." Behind the Frenchman's back, Abe glared at Henry.

"Well, I suppose it's certainly worth talking about." She glanced down at her Wonder Woman watch. "Damn, it's 7:45. I have to run to meet my date at the Roxy. It’s roller disco night.” She chewed on her thumb for a moment. “Tell you what — why don't you swing by my place tomorrow evening around 8:00 for dinner?"

"I doubt … I mean… such short notice....” Henry shook his head.

"We'd love to!" Abe grabbed her hands and pecked both her cheeks. “We’ll see you then.”

"Great, I'll pick up some steaks. Trust me, neither of you will leave hungry." With a grin and a wink, she breezed out of the shop.

 

* * *

As he waited for Henry to come down, Abe studied himself in the mahogany cheval mirror. It had been a good buy. Both the mirror and the leisure suit he was wearing. He knew the indigo of the denim brought out the blue of his eyes.

He worried at a piece of lint on his cuff. He really needed tonight to go well. Abe understood Henry’s reservations about sharing the basement, but he’d already come up with a plan to solve that problem. Now he just had to sell it to both Henry and The Frenchman.

He eyed the bottle of 18-year old Glenlivet on the sideboard. Scotch was really more Henry’s style than his, but what the hell? It had helped get his father through centuries. Surely it could help get Abe through one night.

He poured himself a healthy glass, tossed it back and came up sputtering. A Black Russian that most decidedly was not. But the alcohol’s initial fire quickly banked to a cozy warmth and Abe poured himself another dose.

“Really, Abraham, don’t you think it’s a bit early for that?” Henry side-eyed the glass in Abe’s hand.

Abe took a deliberate mouthful and swallowed nonchalantly, careful not to sputter this time. “That’s rich, you saying that to me. Let me remind you of just who I developed that hangover remedy for.”

Henry gave a wry chuckle. “Point taken. But don’t forget, this is a business dinner. Best to keep our wits about us.”

“You’re making too much of this. Sure, she’s got a pretty good head for business. I wouldn’t want her for a partner if she didn’t.” Abe took another sip of whiskey, which was going down smoothly now. “But she’s still a girl. A little wine, a little sweet talk, compliment her cooking and we’ll have her eating out of our hands before the night’s halfway over.”

Henry sighed. “I really wish you would take this just a bit more seriously. She’s obviously intelligent. She certainly seemed quite knowledgeable about the antiques business. And I don’t think she’s going to give up about the basement.”

“I’m telling you, Henry, we can handle her. Almost 200 years old and you’re going to let some young chick rattle your cage?” Abe offered Henry the rest of his scotch. “Here, you clearly need this more than I do.”

Henry took the glass with a frown, put it down on the desk and reached for a caramel leather jacket off the coat rack. “The least you could have done was dress properly. I mean, really, a denim leisure suit? I’d think that attire more appropriate to a night at Studio 54.”

“What? It’s a suit.” Abe looked from his own clothing to his father’s green-and-brown plaid slacks and ivory dress shirt.  “Besides, at least I don’t look like a NARC.”

Henry slid the jacket on, considered the leftover drink, then downed it. “Am I supposed to know what a NARC is?” he asked as they both stepped out of the shop.

 

* * *

The two men trudged up the last of the five flights with collars faintly damp in the August heat. They made their way down the hall, peering at doors until finally stopping by the corner apartment.

The door was generic black, just like the others, except for the brass #3 hanging above the peephole and the collection of footwear next to it. Red platforms, navy blue Dr. Scholl’s, yellow and orange Pumas–all lined up neatly by the wall.

Abe pressed the door bell and heard a faint, “just a minute,” mingled with the refrain from Blondie’s “One Way or Another” come from inside. A few moments later a smiling Frenchman opened the door.

“Hello, boys!” She stood on bare tip toes to peck first Abe, then Henry on their cheeks. “Nice to know you’re both so prompt. Guess I won’t have to worry about the store opening on time in the mornings.”

“Wow, whatever you’re cooking smells delicious! We brought wine.” Abe presented the bottle as he lifted a foot over the threshold, only to be halted by The Frenchman’s outstretched arm.

“Hold on there, cowboy. Shoes off first, please.” She pointed to the line of shoes, then took the bottle from Abe. “You can drop them next to mine. Sorry, old family custom.”

As both men dutifully removed their shoes, she inspected the label. “A 1959 St. Emilion. That’s a good year. Do you treat all your potential business partners this well?”

“Only the pretty ones.” Abe grinned from ear to ear. She really was pretty, the rich burgundy of her wrap dress highlighted the warmth of her skin and gold hoop earrings shimmered underneath long, dark hair.

A sharp elbow in the side from Henry wiped the grin away. “Dinner really does smell delicious. Thank you so much for inviting us.” Henry wandered past Abe into the living area, marked by a taupe oriental rug. He bypassed the Wedgewood blue roll-arm couch and mismatched set of fawn velvet wing chairs to inspect the wall of art, design and history books which flanked the empty red brick fireplace. “I must say, your apartment is lovely and quite spacious for Greenwich Village.”

“Thanks. I got lucky.” The Frenchman opened the drawer in the sideboard, searching for a wine opener. “My aunt was living here, and I took over the apartment from her when she remarried and moved upstate.” The Frenchman grunted as she grappled with the wine opener and the cork. 

“Here, let me help you with that!” Henry shot over to grab the bottle.

“I can do it,” The Frenchman refused to surrender and grabbed it back.

Henry hung on for a moment longer, then relinquished the struggle. “If you’re sure….”

“I’m certain. I’ve never had a wine bottle get the best of me yet,” she replied. “Though it’d be great if one of you boys could check the potatoes. I think they’re probably done.”

“Those I got,” Abe said, dropping his jacket on the back of the couch and rolling up his sleeves. “Henry’s useless in the kitchen.” He went straight for the oven and peered inside. “Yup, these are good to go.”

Henry watched as Abe removed the potatoes and The Frenchman uncorked the wine.  “Is, ah, there anything I can do to help?”

“Just stand there and look pretty.” The Frenchman gave him a wink and a glass of wine, then joined Abe in the kitchen. With a light swat to his bottom, she asked, “Why don’t you put the potatoes on the table with the sour cream and grab your wine, while I finish broiling the steaks?”

Abe did as he was instructed, depositing the food on the table and grabbing his wine from the sidebar. He took a gulp of wine and whispered, “Did she just call you pretty?”

“Yes, just before she…,” Henry circled a finger in the direction of Abe’s posterior, “did that. I do believe we may have to make certain... terms of our proposed partnership crystal clear to this woman.”

“You saw that?” Abe drained his wine with a grimace and poured himself another glass. All he needed was Henry getting spooked by a little harmless horseplay and he could kiss this deal goodbye. Best to appear unconcerned.

“Oh, c’mon, Henry, loosen up a little!” Abe tried to distract Henry with bravado. “You’re taking her too seriously. She’s just flirting. Women are free to do that these days, you know. It’s the ‘70s… almost the ‘80s. Welcome to the world of liberated women.”

“Why are you two still standing here like scarecrows?” The Frenchman glided back over, reaching from behind Henry to slide his jacket from his shoulders. “Look at you all buttoned-up.”

Henry glowered over her head at Abe as she stepped around and ran a finger down his shirt front. “Why don’t you make yourselves at home? There’s some cheese and crackers on the coffee table.” She pointed to the couch, then carefully draped Henry’s jacket over a side chair.  

As the two men sat, she snagged the wine from the sideboard, topping off first Abe’s glass, then Henry’s. “Can’t have you going dry on my watch.” She squeezed in between them and picked up the cheese platter, which she offered to Henry. “Wanna bite of something tasty?”

“Hum, thank you.” Frowning ever so slightly, Henry reached for a piece of brie and a water cracker.

Striving for nonchalance, Abe gulped a mouthful from his glass as The Frenchman swung round to him. “What about you, Abe? Go for the jalepeno pepper jack. I’m sure you like things hot and spicy.”

“Ah, yes, as a matter of fact I do.” Abe popped a piece of cheese into his mouth. “Ooh, that is good!” He smiled widely. As she turned again, another sizable swig doused the fire in his mouth.

The Frenchman leaned in closer with the platter to Henry. “Now you strike me as a man who likes a good, hard—”

Abe watched Henry’s frown deepen and gulped again. If only his father would just relax, she’d stop trying so hard to make Henry comfortable. She was just being nice. And isn’t that what he wanted in a business partner? Someone nice… and cute… and….

The kitchen timer summoned The Frenchman back to the kitchen. “These are perfect!” she called. “Grab a second bottle of wine and sit at the table, boys. Like a good woman, a good steak waits for no man!”

“You got it!” Abe accepted the assignment eagerly, but as he rose to take the fresh bottle from the sideboard, he was stopped halfway up by his father’s arm.  

“Abraham! For pity’s sake, slow down on the wine,” Henry whispered. "Keep drinking at this pace and she'll have you agreeing to hand over the whole shop, basement and all.”

“What are you talking about, I’m fine.” Abe steadied himself on Henry’s shoulder as he wobbled upright. “Besides, I think I got the answer. What if we... you know," he sipped more courage and slid through his words on a mouthful of wine. "ah... found some, ah... someplace else... you know... maybe like somewhere around the corner... or something... for her stuff, I mean. That would work, right?”

"You mean rent some external storage." Abe nodded and Henry rose, shaking off his son's hand. "I doubt it. She's an extraordinarily single-minded woman. I suspect she'll insist on having her inventory onsite. I'm afraid to contemplate what she might ask for in return."

“Just follow my lead." Abe blustered. " Ain't been a woman yet who could resist the ole Morgan charm.”

“Well, I’m skeptical of how the ‘old Morgan charm’ will fare in this brave new world of liberated women." Henry beat Abe to the fresh bottle and placed it in the middle of the round oak dining table.

Both men took their seats as The Frenchman brought out a platter of sizzling steaks. She handed the platter to Abe and sat down. “Dig in!” She passed the potatoes to Henry. “Help yourself.” She refilled their glasses, then sipped her wine as she surveyed the two men filling their plates. “There are few things I enjoy more in this life than watching red-blooded men go to it,” another sip, “on… er, at the dinner table.”

“Hey, don’t forget to eat up there yourself,” Abe plunked a steak on her plate. The wine in his belly–as well as the lazy smile she tossed him–gave him the nerve he needed to launch a new charm offensive. “I like a girl with a good appetite,” he beamed at her. She looked for all the world like a cat licking cream from her paws. But she was so cute, like a kitten. So maybe not a cat. Maybe a kitten. Her smile widened as he stared at her. Yes, definitely a kitten.

The Frenchman looked Abe square in the eye as she sliced into her steak. “I’m so happy to hear that. What about you, Henry? What do you think about my… appetite.” Turning to Henry, she put a piece of steak on her tongue and chewed slowly, methodically.

“Ah, perhaps it would be more prudent to discuss the business at hand?” Henry focused on cutting his steak into precise half-inch bites. “For example, these bone-handled steak knives, are these the sort of antiques you typically offer?”

“I do offer knives like these,” she ran her fingertips lovingly over the scrimshaw pattern of her knife handle, “But these were too rare to sell. I have to admit, I find it hard not to keep some of the more exquisite pieces for my own personal use. Not the best business sense, but then the heart wants what the heart wants, n’est pas?”

She sighed delicately and returned her attention to her plate. “Damn. Forgot the creamed spinach. Go on, eat. I’ll be right back.”

Abe grabbed the wine and refilled his glass. “Henry, be nice!”

Henry glared as Abe gulped his wine. “I am being nice! I’m just a little concerned that she wants both of us to be very nice.”

Abe groaned under his breath. He had enough to worry about without having to soothe Henry’s antiquated sense of propriety. Besides, the wine whispered, if she was interested in anyone here, it was a young guy like him, not his father. He rolled his eyes and sipped some more.

“Get your head out of the Victorian era. She’s just teasin',” he urged, topping off Henry’s glass. “All I’m askin' is you play along a li'l bit.” He took another sip and the alcohol spurred his tongue straight for his father’s jugular. “This thing's gonna make my life a whole lot easier. Jus' try not to be so uptight, please?”

“Here we go.” The Frenchman served up a scoop of spinach onto each plate. “Gotta get some iron to keep our stamina up, right?”

Abe tucked into his spinach and washed it down with some wine. If he could just get through this dinner and get rid of his dad, he might just have a shot with this chick.

 

* * *

The third bottle of wine was near to empty, their bellies full and the small talk exhausted when The Frenchman leaned forward, arms and elbows on the table. “So, let’s talk about that basement. I mean, sure, my shop now is tiny, and it would be great to have more floor space for display,” she toyed with the serving fork on the empty platter, “But what good is that if I don’t have any storage? What am I supposed to do with my reserve inventory?”

Henry glared at Abe and set his jaw. He picked the empty plates off the table and marched off to drop them in the kitchen sink.

Message received. Abe reached for the wine bottle and poured himself yet another glass of courage. He squinted an eye and tapped his temple. "Well now, I been thinkin' 'bout that. An' I got the perfect sol... sol... answer. How 'bout if I...," he poked himself in the chest, looked down at his finger, then back up as Henry returned to his seat. "I mean we...," he waved his finger in a circle to include them all, "pop for some ex... ex..."

The Frenchman frowned and Henry jumped in. "What Abe is suggesting is that we rent some external storage for your inventory."

"Exactly! Thank you, Henry." Abe nodded at The Frenchman like a bobble-head doll. "He's a good da... uh, guy."

The Frenchman pursed her lips and sipped at her wine. “Well, I don’t know. How would I get my stuff from the storage facility to the shop?”

“Aww,” Abe leaned over unsteadily and patted her hand. “Don’ worry 'bout that, kitten. You got two big," Abe flexed a muscle, "strong men to help now.”

She withdrew her hand from Abe’s and placed it under her chin. “Really. So you want me to pay for extra storage space and rely on you two to hump it across town to the shop, just because he,” she jerked her thumb at the other man, “won’t give up a few square feet of the basement?”

She snorted and swung in her seat to bat her eyes at Henry. “What have you got down there? Some sort of sex dungeon? I bet my antique handcuff collection could put yours to shame.” She grinned wickedly and twirled a tendril of dark hair. “C’mon, just think about it. You, me, Abe. All three of us. Together.”

Abe twitched as he felt her hand reach for his knee. He returned her bright smile with his own. He had her right where he wanted her. She’d just agreed that the three of them should be in business together.

“So, uh, yeah, us...," once again Abe circled his finger to include them all, "together... that's great. I’ll, ah... have some, uhm... papers... you know... done... or somethin'... tomorrow.” He was going in for the kill, but Henry was staring at him as if he’d grown another head.

The Frenchman simply ignored him and continued addressing Henry. “Isn’t that worth making some room in the basement for me?” she asked. “I mean, think of the possibilities.”

Abe felt her fingers sliding ever so slowly up his leg. Wait. He squinted unsteadily. Was that her other hand taking a similar route on his dad's leg? He shook his head to clear his vision. That couldn’t be right.

“Ah, my dear,” Henry said with a forced grin. He put his own hand over hers to stop the motion. “I think perhaps you’ve the wrong idea—”

Someone definitely had the wrong idea and for a moment, Abe fuzzily debated exactly who that was. It had to be Henry. There was no way this cute little girl was putting the moves on both of them. Abe stared mutely, first at her hand in his lap, then at her hand in Henry’s lap. Except that she was. Abe snorted. Clearly she was drunk.

“Now listen, honey," he tottered up from his seat, wagging a finger first at The Frenchman, “you,” then at Henry and himself, "us…,” then hazily at them all, “respe—”

Abe’s whole body followed the forward motion of his last finger shake, heading for The Frenchman’s lap. She calmly shifted her chair closer to Henry’s as Abe crashed face down onto her carpet.

He blinked at Henry as he was pulled first to a sitting position, then, with his dad's shoulder under his arm, hoisted to standing. The room rocked as he clung to the other man for support. Funny, he didn’t remember getting on a boat.

“Wow, that Abe really can’t hold his wine, can he?”

“Apparently not. Now if you’ll excuse us, I think it best if I take Abe home.”

“Oh, don’t be such an _ojisan_. The night is still young, and he’s clearly too drunk to walk. What are you going to do? Carry him down the stairs?” Her hand swept his hair away from his face. “Look, let him sleep it off in my guest room for an hour or two and then he can stumble home with you.”

As he and Henry shuffled along to the guest room, Abe warned, "Don' be shocked... but I... I... I... think... she's... she's...."

"Yes, Abraham, hush." Henry consoled him in the same tone of voice his dad had used when he was nine and his best friend, Lyle, had revealed to him that Santa Claus was a fake. "I know. Don't worry. I'll handle it. Sleep now."

Abe gently dropped onto a plush coverlet, then felt a silken throw tucked around him.

He heard the whoosh of a door softly closing and a muted whisper. “Hey, Henry, why don’t I show you my antique handcuff collection while Abe sleeps?”

 

* * *

He awoke to the pounding of kettle drums in his head and the jangle of metal in the room next store.

“So what do you think, Henry?”

“It’s a very… comprehensive...  collection, my dear, but I really do think Abe and I should be going….” Click.

The murmur of a female voice. “You like the handcuffs, Henry?” A few soft footstepsand the murmur shifted location. “They’re from the early 1900s. Now that was a time when they knew how to make restraints. Strong but with such elegant lines.” Click.

“Uhm, yes, yes. They’re quite a lovely pair.” The rustle of cloth, then an audible gulp from Henry.. “They, uhm, seem to be, uhm, just as effective as the day they were made….” Rattle.

“You think that pair’s nice, wait until you see mine.” A swish of fabric sliding to the floor.

Rattle, rattle. “They’re quite beautiful—whoah!” The bed creaked as a body crashed onto it.

A low chuckle and a few small squeaks from the mattress drifted over as a second body joined the bed. “Mmm, I thought you’d like them.”

Lips sliding along skin accompanied the snaps of Henry’s shirt buttons coming undone. Henry gave a long shaky exhale. A quick zip made him reverse it with a sharp intake.

“Oh, Henry,” the Frenchman sighed, “I knew you were a stand-up guy the moment I saw you.”

“My dear, we really … ah … shouldn’t … I mean … Abe’s right next… oh,” Henry gasped breathlessly. The other man was silent for so long, Abe wondered if he should head for the river. When his father’s voice returned it was a throaty growl, “Bloody hell, why not?”

The Frenchman laughed out loud and Henry grunted wordlessly. Another series of clicks and rattles, then the mattress yelped as two bodies flipped on it.

Now it was Henry’s turn to laugh as the Frenchman squealed her surprise. The headboard banged against the wall, once, twice, three times, then over and over, picking up speed and force with each impact.

Oh, God. This was not happening. Abe groaned again, rolled into a fetal position and pulled his pillow over his head.

On and on it went. He added a second pillow to the first and clutched them tightly about his ears. He tried counting to 10,000, but kept having to start over, thanks to all the moaning, groaning, sliding and sighing in the other room. He thought of the joy house he’d visited his first week in Saigon. Now there was a memory he didn’t need in his current situation.

 

* * *

Abe was never quite sure how long it went on. He dozed for an hour, possibly two, once the apartment had gone silent. All he knew was that shell pink was nudging deep blue from the sky when he heard a knock on the bedroom door.

He grunted and Henry poked his head in. “C’mon, Abe, time to go home.” He offered Abe his jacket, but failed to meet his son’s eyes.

Abe straightened his clothes and put on his jacket. He stepped into the living area and saw The Frenchman, wrapped in a teal silk kimono, standing with Henry at the open door.

“It’s been a pleasure,” she purred as she pulled Henry’s head down to kiss his cheek.

Henry gave her a small grin. “Yes, it has.”

Abe stood for a moment. He’d never seen his father with anyone besides his mother. And this certainly wasn’t how he’d pictured the evening ending. He’d never considered what it might be like to have his father as a rival.

Then he cringed as he remembered that The Frenchman had made a play for them both. It was far too early and he was far too hung over to untangle that emotional knot. Shaking such thoughts away, he joined Henry at the door.

As he crossed the threshold, The Frenchman blew him a kiss “Don’t worry, Abe, I’ll get you next time.”

The door shut and both men silently stepped into their shoes. Abe looked over at his father. “You’ve, ah, got a bit of… ah, lipstick on your cheek there.”

Henry scrubbed at the hollow of his right cheek. “Abe, I know you’re capable of managing your business, but perhaps it would be prudent to reevaluate this plan of yours to partner with the Frenchman….”

“Not if she were the last antiques dealer on earth.”

 

* * *

**Epilogue — January 2014**

“Henry!” Holding a hand to his head, Abe flinched at the sound of his own voice. “Cut that out. You’re not helping!” He shifted against the bed pillows with a groan as his father poked and prodded at his lower back.

“Abraham, you must sit still,” Henry ordered, “I just want to make sure it’s merely a muscle strain and not a herniated disc. Tell me again. Exactly how did you injure yourself?”

“I told you. We were at the opening night party. I was leading The Frenchman in a killer Argentine tango,” Abe lifted his arms in a dancing embrace for demonstration, “but when I moved to dip her, she tried to dip me, I went back too far and… down I went. I haven’t been right since.” He shuffled his legs under the blankets as his father continued his examination.

“Ah hah. Dipping The Frenchman. I see.” Henry paused and looked at his son with lifted eyebrows. “You know, according to a recent British study, these types of back injuries are fairly common when people… of a certain age... try to engage in… ah… non-traditional… ahem—”

“Dancing. The. Tango.” Abe ground the words out bite by bite. “Someday, Henry, that woman is going to be the death of me… ow… ow…” Abe drew in a deep breath, “unless you kill me first. Ouch! Remember, we’re not all immortal!”

“Oh, do stop being such a child. If you’re old enough to overindulge in drinking and disco dancing, you’re old enough to suffer through a little spinal manipulation.” Henry pointed to a glass of murky liquid on the bed table. “Now drink your hangover tonic.”

Abe took a sip and frowned. “Ugh. That’s awful. It’s not my recipe. What’d you change?”

“I assure you, awful or not, it is your recipe. I followed it exactly.” With a flick of his wrist, Henry urged Abe to finish the tonic. “Bottoms up.”

“No, you didn’t. You put too much anchovy in it.”  Abe sipped tentatively, then held his nose and dutifully swallowed the rest. “And I’d hardly call the Tango ‘disco dancing.’ It’s not like we were doing the Bump. Although, if memory serves correctly, that would have been your specialty.” He smirked at Henry, who responded with a sharp jab to his lumbar region. “Yowch! Would you stop?”

Henry gave a satisfied nod. “Yes, definitely a muscle strain. I prescribe bed rest and ice, lots of ice. I’ll go make a cold pack, shall I?” Henry headed for the door, then turned and smirked. “Unless, of course, you’d prefer me to call The Frenchman and have her play nurse for you.”

Abe dismissed Henry with a first edition _The Catcher in the Rye_ flung at his head. It was going to be a very, very long recuperation.


End file.
